Bash paused by the narrow wall compartment as Rixor pointed to it. “Your closet’s already synced,”

  the grey Spartor said, sliding the panel open. Inside hung a set of dark clothing and fitted boots, plain,

  but the material shimmered faintly with a faint inner sheen. “Standard issue. The fabric’s imbued, it’ll

  read your resonance the first time you put it on and shape itself to fit. Same with the footwear.”

  Bash brushed his fingers along one sleeve. It felt cool and smooth, the texture shifting slightly beneath

  his touch.

  “Reactive,” Rixor added. “Imbuement-grade fibers. They mold, reinforce, and self-repair under normal

  use. Not combat grade, don’t expect armor, but the reinforcement’s better than nothing. If you tear it,

  it’ll close up in minutes. Dirt wipes off, liquids don’t absorb. You’ll see.”

  Bash gave a short nod. “So at least something here’s user-friendly.”

  Rixor grinned. “Yeah, that’s one way to look at it. The Nexus doesn’t do comfort, but they at least

  figured out convenience.”

  Bash hesitated, then pulled the new clothes from the rack. The fabric flexed in his hands, light, smooth,

  and faintly cool to the touch. When he slipped into the outfit, it shifted almost instantly, tightening and

  reshaping until it felt like it had been tailored exactly for him. Even the boots sealed snugly around his

  ankles, firm but weightless.

  He looked down, turning his hands. The material followed his movements like a second skin. “Better,”

  he murmured.

  “Told you,” Rixor said with a grin. “Now you look like you belong.”

  “Let’s not go that far.”

  They stepped into the corridor. The hall beyond the dorms curved upward toward the cafeteria, its

  white alloy walls pulsing faintly beneath strips of steady light. His discarded processing clothes lay

  forgotten by the door as it sealed behind them, the faint rustle fading into silence. His new boots made

  no sound at all, each step absorbed by the soft composite beneath the soles.

  He followed half a step behind Rixor, trying not to look lost. The grey Spartor walked with the

  confidence of someone who’d memorized the layout on his first day. He’d also been talking since the

  moment they’d left the dorm.

  “They’ve already got fifteen Reincarnates,” Rixor said, glancing over his shoulder. “Five more and

  their training starts. Each cycle runs with either a hundred Novarchs or twenty Reincarnates.

  Whichever fills first begins the schedule.”

  Bash gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment.

  “While we wait, we’re supposed to start orientation training,” Rixor continued. “They let us use the

  Coordination Facility, but it’s more for the Reincarnates. They push harder, have to re-align their bodies

  after coming back. Most of us Novarchs just… try not to fall over.”

  He laughed at his own joke.

  Bash forced a small smile, still scanning the curving walls. Everything gleamed, seamless, metallic,

  and cold. It felt less like a building and more like walking through the core of an enormous machine.

  He thought about asking S-C for a map, but she’d gone quiet since for a while now, and he wasn’t sure

  if he wanted to disturb her. When she spoke, she didn’t stop, facts, protocols, probabilities. He could

  use a moment of silence.

  Rixor, apparently, could not.

  “Been here two days already,” he went on. “Figured my roommates would show up sooner, but I guess

  the hatchings came slow. Probably all Reincarnates these last few rotations. Their incubation times are

  shorter.”

  Bash nodded again. “Guess that makes sense.”

  The ramp leveled out. Ahead stood two broad sets of doors, one glowing with faint blue light, the other

  with pale white. Between them stretched a massive archway marked CAFETERIA ACCESS - CYCLE

  N-47.

  Rixor pointed. “Central hub. The cafeteria connects both dorm sectors. Reincarnates enter from the the

  other side, Novarchs from the right here. They say it’s supposed to foster unity.”

  He grinned. “Really, it just makes it easier to monitor everyone.”

  Inside, the hum of machinery blended with quiet conversation. The air smelled faintly metallic, filtered

  clean but heavy with warmth. Rows of long alloy tables stretched in precise symmetry across the space.

  The far wall shimmered with moving light where serving stations waited, each built from the same

  seamless metal as the walls.

  Rixor motioned him forward. “Come on, I’ll show you how it works.”

  They joined a short line of Spartors. At the front, a figure pressed their hand against a glowing pad, and

  a tray appeared from a recessed slot. Food, if it could be called that, materialized in perfect portions.

  Rixor did the same, a soft grey light blooming under his palm. A tray slid out moments later, steam

  rising from the meal. “See? Resonance link. The Nexus recognizes your Core frequency and prepares

  nutrients calibrated to your type. Efficient, right?”

  Bash stared at the process. “Efficient’s one word for it.”

  He mimicked the motion, pressing his hand to the pad. It pulsed green, brighter than Rixor’s, and a tray

  emerged, meat, vegetables, something like bread. It looked disturbingly human.

  He frowned. “You’d think it’d all be energy cubes or something.”

  Rixor laughed. “The Council found Spartors function better when the food looks… familiar. Especially

  for Reincarnates.”

  Bash took the tray and followed him through the crowd. Everywhere they went, heads turned. Spartors

  of every color, brown, grey, blue,glanced over, some trying to be discreet, others not bothering.

  Conversations dipped to whispers.

  S-C’s voice brushed through his mind, calm but precise. You are drawing attention again.

  Yeah, I noticed, he thought.

  It is expected, she said. Green Spartors are statistically rare

  Novarchs. Few here have ever seen one in person.

  Bash exhaled. So they’re staring because I’m rare, not because I’m defective.

  Correct. They have no basis for comparison. To them, your tone is simply green. Curiosity, not

  judgment.

  He smirked faintly. So I’m the shiny new thing in the room. Great.

  Much like Rixor, she replied, her tone softening. Fascination is not hostility.

  Bash muttered under his breath, “Feels like being dissected.”

  Rixor looked back. “What was that?”

  “Nothing. Lead the way.”

  They found an open table near the center. Bash sat opposite Rixor, lowering his tray carefully. The

  surface was warm to the touch, humming faintly, like everything else on this ship.

  Rixor leaned forward, eyes bright. “You realize how rare this is, right? A Green in my dorm? That’s,

  what, one in ten thousand? Maybe one in a hundred thousand!”

  Bash gave him a flat look over his tray. “You said that already.”

  Rixor blinked, then laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Guess I did. Sorry, still kinda can’t

  believe it’s real.”

  “Yeah,” Bash said dryly, stabbing at his food. “Me either.”

  In his head, S-C added helpfully, One in twenty-five thousand, to be exact.

  Bash exhaled through his nose. Not helping.

  Accuracy maintains order.

  So does silence.

  He looked back at Rixor, who was still smiling like he’d met a hero. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

  They ate in awkward silence for a minute. The food wasn’t bad, dense, savory, something between

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  steak and synthetic protein. He was halfway through when the cafeteria doors on the left hissed open.

  Then the doors to the Reincarnate wing opened.

  Instantly, the room stirred. Voices lifted, chairs scraped, and heads turned as the returning veterans

  entered, eight Greens, six Blues, and one White, all moving with the easy confidence of those who’d

  seen combat and come back from it. The Novarchs watched with open awe, whispering to each other,

  their attention drawn completely to the new arrivals.

  The Reincarnates moved through the food line, trays in hand, the hum of admiration following them.

  But halfway through the line, the noise began to fade. The whispers quieted, the admiration ebbed, and

  slowly the focus of the room shifted again.

  Back to Bash.

  The Reincarnates felt it immediately. The change in atmosphere. The way the air seemed to lean away

  from them. The lead Green, broad, his bearing unmistakably authoritative, stopped mid-step, tray

  balanced in one hand. His eyes followed the direction of every stare, scanning across the rows of tables

  until they landed on Bash.

  For a moment, he just looked. Then his expression tightened,curiosity twisting toward disdain.

  Rixor’s voice broke the silence, small and uneasy. “Uh… Bash? They’re looking at you.”

  Bash didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He could feel it, the weight of a over a dozen experienced eyes

  turning his way, assessing, judging.

  The lead Green set his tray down on the counter. Then, without a word, he started walking toward their

  table.

  Rixor whispered, “They’re… coming this way.”

  Bash didn’t reply. He felt it, the weight of their stares, the assessing kind that soldiers used before a

  fight.

  The group passed every empty table and stopped right at theirs.

  The lead leaned forward, eyes hard. “You’re dark,” he said. “Too dark. What happened to you?”

  Bash blinked. “That’s one way to start a conversation.”

  The Reincarnate ignored the jab. “Why are you sitting here with a White when you could be with your

  own?”

  Rixor stiffened. “I’m Grey, actually...”

  “Didn’t ask you,” the Green cut in.

  Bash’s hand tightened on his fork. S-C…

  I am monitoring.

  The Green smirked. “You don’t talk much, do you? Maybe the matrix glitched and forgot your

  manners.”

  Bash took a slow breath. “Maybe it glitched and forgot yours.”

  A few of the Reincarnates chuckled, but the leader didn’t. He shoved Rixor’s tray off the table. Food

  splattered onto the floor.

  “Hey!” Rixor shouted, instinctively reaching down to clean it.

  The Green turned back to Bash. “You should teach your pet some respect.”

  Bash, S-C said sharply. Do not engage.

  But his body moved before his mind caught up.

  When the Reincarnate threw his punch, Bash sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and swept his leg in a

  clean arc. The Green hit the floor with a solid thud, sliding into a waste bin. The crash echoed across

  the cafeteria.

  Every head turned.

  Another Reincarnate lunged. Bash ducked low, twisted his grip, and flipped him into the next. A Blue

  came at him from the left; Bash absorbed the blow, spun, and threw him into a table.

  The sound of metal and shouting filled the air. Chairs toppled. Plates shattered.

  Rixor scrambled backward, wide-eyed. “Stars above...”

  Bash didn’t hear him. Instinct had taken over, cadet drills, defense flows, his father’s lessons. Redirect

  force, don’t resist it. Keep movement tight, efficient.

  A Green tried to grab him from behind; Bash hooked an elbow, spun, and sent him crashing into a

  group of Blues.

  Bash! S-C’s voice was urgent now. De-escalate!

  Working on it!

  A final strike came from his right. Bash blocked, pivoted, and swept the Reincarnate’s legs from under

  him. The Spartor hit the ground hard.

  Then...

  “ENOUGH!”

  The single word shattered the chaos like a physical blow. The volume wasn’t just loud, it resonated

  through the floor, amplified by the cafeteria’s structure.

  Everyone froze.

  Food, trays, chairs, everything stilled in the aftermath. The hum of the cafeteria filled the silence.

  Bash straightened, breathing hard. Around him, Reincarnates groaned on the floor or struggled to sit

  up. Two Greens and a Blue were still standing, battered but upright. The rest were down, scattered

  across tables, some tangled in their own limbs, one crawling out of a trash bin coated in waste and fury.

  Rixor stood pressed against the wall, shaking.

  Bash turned toward the source of the voice.

  At the far end of the cafeteria, a tall figure stood framed by the doorway, a Green Spartor, clad in armor

  traced with faint luminescence. The lines along his shoulders glowed like molten veins. Authority

  radiated from his stillness.

  The figure stepped forward slowly, boots echoing against the alloy floor. Conversations didn’t resume.

  No one dared move.

  He stopped beside one of the fallen Blues, looked over the scene, then up at Bash.

  “Name,” he said, voice cold as steel.

  Bash swallowed, forcing the word out. “Bash.”

  The figure studied him, expression unreadable. “And who authorized a hatchling to turn my cafeteria

  into a combat arena?”

  No one spoke.

  From behind, Rixor found his voice. “It, It wasn’t his fault.”

  “Silence,” the officer snapped, not even looking his way.

  Bash met his gaze evenly. “They started it.”

  “I’m sure they did.” The officer’s tone didn’t change. He turned to the scattered Reincarnates. “Report

  to the Coordination Facility. Now.”

  None of them argued. The Greens who could stand helped the others up, casting dark looks at Bash as

  they limped away.

  The officer waited until the Reincarnates were gone before turning back. The cafeteria was a wreck,

  tables overturned, trays scattered, food smeared across the alloy floor.

  Her gaze found Bash and Rixor still standing amid the chaos. “You two. With me.”

  Rixor stiffened. “Both of us?”

  The officer’s eyes flicked to him. “Do you see anyone else still standing?”

  Bash caught the sharp whisper from S-C. Go. Better to comply.

  He nodded slightly and stepped forward. Rixor followed, shoulders hunched, shooting nervous glances

  at the Reincarnates being marched out the other exit.

  The room stayed silent as they crossed it, dozens of Novarchs watching in wary stillness. The heavy

  doors closed behind them with a soft hiss, cutting off the murmurs.

  For a few beats, there was only the sound of their footsteps echoing through the cafeteria.

  Then the officer spoke, still walking, her tone controlled but edged. “You’re either very brave, or very

  stupid.”

  Bash’s jaw tightened. “Little of both, maybe.”

  Rixor blurted, “We didn’t start it! They...”

  “Quiet.” The word hit like a shockwave. Rixor’s mouth snapped shut.

  The officer stopped and turned, eyes a flat, cold blue. She studied Bash first, then Rixor. “You’ll have

  your chance to explain,” she said evenly. “For now, follow.”

  They obeyed. They made their way into the Coordination Facility.

  Rixor leaned toward Bash, voice barely audible. “We’re dead, aren’t we?”

  “Not yet,” Bash muttered.

  S-C’s tone slid through his thoughts, calm but firm. Survival depends on compliance, for now.